


Three Strikes and You're Out

by astrangerfate, orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Discipline, Other, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-01-01
Updated: 2008-01-01
Packaged: 2017-10-22 18:53:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/241392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astrangerfate/pseuds/astrangerfate, https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You know, all things considered, there are some definite benefits to Dad hunting on the weekends, Dean reflected. He wrapped a protective arm around Annie Gaines, and slid his hand down to her waist for good measure. He was just leaning in to melt into those lips—dark red and scented with cranberries—when his younger brother burst through the door.</p><p>“Jesus, Sam!” he exploded, breaking away from the long, slender fingers Annie had buried in his shirt. “You weren’t supposed to be home till midnight! What the hell do you think you’re doing?”</p><p>“We have a problem, Dean.” There was no mistaking the urgency in Sam’s voice. At fourteen, it still cracked despite his best efforts when he was angry or upset. Normally, he would have calmed down before trying to talk, because Dean was only too happy to point out what a baby he was when it happened. Something was definitely wrong, even though Dean was trying his hardest to pretend he was imagining it. “And she needs to go, now.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three Strikes and You're Out

**Author's Note:**

> Spanking fic. Don't like, click your back button.
> 
> This was written for a friend who gave me the prompts: a bowling ball, Sam's bitchface, a bloody nose, duct tape, and a stuffed toy bunny.

_September 12, 1997_  
Hawk Ridge, Alabama  
10:00 p.m.

 _You know, all things considered, there are some definite benefits to Dad hunting on the weekends,_ Dean reflected. He wrapped a protective arm around Annie Gaines, and slid his hand down to her waist for good measure. He was just leaning in to melt into those lips—dark red and scented with cranberries—when his younger brother burst through the door.

“Jesus, Sam!” he exploded, breaking away from the long, slender fingers Annie had buried in his shirt. “You weren’t supposed to be home till midnight! What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“We have a problem, Dean.” There was no mistaking the urgency in Sam’s voice. At fourteen, it still cracked despite his best efforts when he was angry or upset. Normally, he would have calmed down before trying to talk, because Dean was only too happy to point out what a baby he was when it happened. Something was definitely wrong, even though Dean was trying his hardest to pretend he was imagining it. “And she needs to go, now.”

Annie sat up and pouted at Dean, buttoning the top two holes on her shirt. “Come on, Dean. My parents aren’t home. We can go to my place and…”

“No,” Dean said shortly. “Sam’s just leaving. You’re damn right, we have a problem,” he snarled. “You’re supposed to be bowling, squirt. Now beat it.”

“No, Dean,” Sam pleaded. “We _have a problem.”_

“What kind of a problem?” Dean wanted to know. “We talking ‘Oh, Sam’s bored on a Friday night’ problem, or ‘Sam’s going to get his ass beat if he doesn’t leave his big brother alone’ problem? Huh?”

“Try a…well, I think it…. It’s a ‘connected to the family business’ type of problem,” Sam stuttered, glancing nervously in Annie’s direction, hoping that she didn’t get suspicious.

“Family business?” Dean asked. He frowned. “Oh… _Oh._ Okay. Right. Look, Annie, I’m really sorry about this, but you’re going to have to leave.”

He rose from the couch and extended a hand to help her to her feet. She didn’t take it. “Dean, it’s a Friday night,” she protested. “We had _plans_. You aren’t going to stand me up for—”

“Look, I’m sorry. Really, _really_ sorry,” he added with a sigh. “But I’ll call you tomorrow, okay? But, uhh…I need to be here for Sam right now. Thanks for coming by, and…I’ll call you.”

“Okay,” she said slowly. She got up and walked to the door of the apartment, ignoring Sam and sending Dean one last regretful look.

“This better be good,” Dean said once the door was shut, pointing at the couch.

“I don’t want to sit there after—” Sam began, revolted, but Dean cut him off with a growl.

“Look, Sam, I was about to get laid and I don’t want to hear it, okay? Tell me why you think anything supernatural could possibly be happening in Hawk Ridge. Because this town is deader than last week’s news.”

“Yeah, that’s exactly the problem,” Sam said, sitting down gingerly. “Have you ever been to the bowling alley?”

Dean snorted. “No, geek, the bowling alley is for losers. Trust me, I have better things to do on the weekends.”

Sam looked a little hurt, but he continued. “Well, it’s haunted.”

Dean smirked at that. “Oh, yeah? Tell me, Sammy, what kind of spirit haunts a bowling alley?”

“Stop laughing, Dean. A girl is dead. I’m calling Dad.” Sam stood, but Dean pushed him back down.

“You’re not calling Dad. He’s on a hunt in Georgia and even if there is a hunt here—which I doubt—he’s not going to drop everything and drive back here. Now sit tight and tell me about your ghost.”

“She’s a real ghost, Dean,” Sam said with certainty. “I saw her tonight when we went in, and now she’s killed a girl.”

“Okay, talk to me. I’m listening.”

Sam took a deep, steadying breath. “I—well, she was just outside the alley,” he said. He wasn’t meeting Dean’s eyes. His hands were twisting in his lap, and he watched his fingers cross over and over. They were shaking. “We were a little later getting there than usual, because we had dinner first, you know? At Kyle’s house, because it was his birthday? And so his mom dropped us off a little after eight, and it was dark outside.”

“And then you saw a spirit,” Dean supplied.

“Yeah.” Sam looked up at Dean then, and his voice was firmer. “She was eleven or twelve years old, and she was wearing a pink dress. She was carrying a stuffed bunny rabbit and a jump rope. And…she was dead. She’d been strangled. And I saw her for a few seconds, then she flickered out and disappeared.”

“And you went inside?” Dean asked, disbelieving. “Jesus Christ, Sammy, you could have killed yourself! What the _hell_ did you think you were doing?”

“Well, there had never been any problems with it before!” Sam protested. “I mean, I go there almost every week, and nothing bad has ever happened. I mean, you’re right, nothing supernatural has ever happened in Hawk Ridge before this. So I didn’t think she would hurt anybody, I thought—”

“They’re called vengeful spirits for a reason, Sammy,” Dean said angrily. He jumped up and started pacing around the coffee table, pausing long enough to pound his fist into the arm of the sofa. “Damn it, Sammy, you could have _died!_ You should have come back here the minute you saw that sonuvabitch. God, when Dad finds out he’s going to kick your ass…”

“Don’t tell him, Dean, please?” Sam begged. “I didn’t think it was a big deal; I was going to mention it to him and see if there were any cases like that in the area. I just thought that since nothing had happened yet….” He trailed off when Dean showed no signs of sympathy. “Please don’t tell him?” he asked again, turning wide, sorrowful eyes on his big brother.

“We’ll see,” Dean said, but his own heart rate had sped out of control what the idea of Sam just walking into a haunted bowling alley—a friggin’ haunted bowling alley, for Chrissakes—and he wasn’t sure Sam didn’t deserve the hell of a spanking John would hand out. “What happened next?”

“Well, we…went in and started bowling,” Sam said. “We paid for two games in advance, and we were just starting the second one—Billy won the first one—and…well, she…somebody started screaming right outside and everybody went out to take a look, and this girl—she was our age, Dean, I mean, maybe even a little younger, and she was just lying there, and then the police came and the ambulance came but she was dead.” Sam was pale, and his eyes had gone back to his hands. “She’d been strangled, and there was no one in sight. No weapon, no…anything.”

“Fuck.” For Dean, the word summed it up. Murder, ghosts, and pissing off Annie. It just wasn’t his night. He sank back onto the sofa beside his brother and put his head in his hands.

“So they closed the alley off. And, we…went home.”

“Okay, well, we can’t rule out the possibility that it was a human,” Dean said, but his mind was already racing. He’d never been inside the bowling alley, but he knew it—impossible not to know it in a town like Hawk Ridge. And there was a major renovation going on at the hotel across the street. They’d torn the whole thing down, in fact. Which could cause a dormant spirit to wake up. And start killing people. Fuck.

“It wasn’t, Dean.”

“Is the bowling alley going to open tomorrow?” Dean asked.

“I think so,” Sam said. “I mean, that’s what the manager said. If there’s no police work. Because it wasn’t actually inside the alley, and…well, there are two things to do in this town on the weekends. There’s the bowling alley and the drive-in. They’re not going to close on a Saturday night if they can help it.”

“But is anyone going to show up after this?” Dean wondered aloud.

“Well, I thought maybe…” Sam was going to have to get over his traumatizing experience pretty fast, Dean decided, because the long pauses were getting on his nerves. “If Dad gets back in time, maybe he can take a look at it.”

“He’s not going to be home tomorrow night.” Dean spoke with assurance. “He said Sunday or Monday at the absolute earliest.”

“Then I guess it’s you and me.”

Sam was determined. His voice didn’t crack, his jaw jutted forward, and the color was returning to his cheeks. Dean felt a surge of pride. Sam was a Winchester, after all. He knew that saving lives was what mattered most, and if they had the skills to make sure it got done, then damn the risk.

But Sam had never actually gone on a full-fledged hunt before. He’d never been there for the kill, or actually smoked some monster himself. He waited in the car while John and Dean finished the job. And Dean _knew_ Sam wasn’t ready to go in the line of fire.

“Oh, no. Hell, no.” Sam wasn’t going anywhere near this thing, no matter how brave he was, or how much Dean needed backup. Because, yeah, Dean was going. John Winchester was raising his sons to waste nasty spirits who lurked around killing children in bowling alleys, and Dean wasn’t going to let anyone else die in Hawk Ridge. Not when he could stop it.

***

_September 13, 1997  
7:00 p.m._

“I’m coming, Dean, and you’re not stopping me.” Sam sat deliberately in the recliner with his arms crossed across his chest. He was wearing his best bitchface and the attitude to match.

“You’re not coming, Sam, and that’s final,” Dean said again.

“Look, Dean, it’s too dangerous for you to do it alone,” Sam began reasonably.

“And that’s exactly why you’re staying here,” Dean finished. “The answer is no, Sammy. Now let’s go over what I’m taking—alone—one more time.”

Just as he’d hoped, Sam leaned his head back and closed his eyes as he began ticking his fingers. “Uhh, rock salt, for protection…”

“Check…” Dean peeled a strip of the duct tape off the roll and approached his brother from behind, as stealthily as he knew how.

“Your notebook, cause you’re doing a report on local tragedies and need examples of violent deaths….”

“Check…” He wrapped the duct tape around the back of the chair, then crept to the front.

“And just in case you somehow find the grave—” Sam started, and he pounced. He spun the tape quickly, efficiently, but oh-so tightly, and before Sam knew what hit him he was bound to the chair, and Dean was on his knees, taping Sam’s ankles to the legs of the recliner.

Sam squawked in indignation and fought to get loose, thrashing his shoulders and kicking his feet. The left ankle, which still wasn’t quite taped, caught Dean in the ribs before he got it under control again. He congratulated himself on his success. Catching Sam off guard had been key.

“Let me go, Dean. Now.” Sam tried his hardest to sound menacing, but his voice cracked a little at the end, because he had a feeling it wasn’t going to happen, and Dean laughed it off.

“I told you there was no way you were coming with me, kid,” he grinned. “And I couldn’t think of another way to stop you from following me, short of drugging you. And since I really didn’t want to have to do that…” He shrugged and broke off one more piece of duct tape, putting the silvery strip between his teeth to bite it loose. Sam’s bitchface intensified.

“Perfect,” he said, taping it gently over Sam’s mouth. “Now you’ll just have to stay there until I get back.” He gave Sam a mocking wave, picked up his backpack—equipped with rock salt, lighter fluid and matches as well as his research notebook—and walked out of the apartment, locking the door behind him.

Sam didn’t stop struggling to get loose. He twisted and kicked and tried in vain to reach the tape across his chest with his own teeth, but he was completely trussed up in the chair. He bucked his hips frantically, and the recliner tipped over backwards. The blood rushed to his head and he swore that when he got loose, Dean would be sorry. He spent the next hour thinking of suitably painful and humiliating ways to get even with his brother, and somehow didn’t run out of imagination or inclination. As he envisioned Dean being shredded by a giant factory loom—never mind how he would get one—he heard the unmistakable sound of a key being turned in the lock. He stiffened. Dean couldn’t be back already. Which could only mean—

Dean had thoughtfully left the lights on for his younger brother, so John walked into the living room and was treated to the full view of Sam’s legs taped to the upended chair. He went immediately into defensive mode, but it was clear that the room was empty, save for his youngest son.

He rushed to the chair, turning it upright before loosening the tape around Sam’s mouth.

“Son, what happened here? Where’s Dean?” he asked urgently.

Sam bit his lip. “You’re not going to like it, Dad.”

***

_Meanwhile, back at the bowling alley_

Dean checked his watch. Time to go outside again. He had been leaving every fifteen minutes with progressively flimsy excuses—bathroom, buying a soda, buying nachos. The men he was playing with—old-timers who wouldn’t have stopped their Saturday night bowling any more than they would have given up their rifles or gone by a name other than Bubba or Billy Joe—hadn’t heard of any young girls who died violent deaths in Hawk Ridge, except for little Maria Paterson last night. And sooner or later they were going to wonder why he kept leaving. As it was, he had completely _bowled them over_ with his pitching skills. He rolled another strike and smiled at the appreciative whistles.

“Well, fellas, I’m going to…uhh, take a smoke break,” he said.

Buck held out a lighter. “Smokin’s allowed in the alley,” he told Dean, his smile revealing the missing front tooth.

“Yeah, but, I, uhh…I like some fresh air when I smoke,” Dean said. He fled to the doors before anyone could argue with him about it. Outside there was still no sign of little Miss Susie Strangler, but he lounged against the wall of the building for a minute, wondering what the hell he thought he was doing. He didn’t know how to track a spirit, not one like this, and he sure as hell didn’t know how to salt and burn when he couldn’t even find the name, let alone the body.

But he didn’t want to think the night had been wasted. At least the alley was mostly empty. And just maybe one of those geezers could remember some horrific kidnapping and murder if he went back inside. Maybe.

When he made it back to the table, he was amused to notice that Bubba had started using the ball _he’d_ been using all night, a black 15-pounder that didn’t take anyone’s shit. It didn’t seem to do him much good, as he hit a 7-10 split.

“It’s not a lucky charm, you know,” Dean said, smirking.

“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ ’bout, boy,” Bubba said, offended.

“The bowling ball,” Dean said, gesturing. “You know, _my_ bowling ball? The one I’ve been using all night? It’s not magic. I’m just that good.”

“Ain’t nobody here thinks it’s magic,” Bubba said, and Dean realized too late that it had been the exact wrong thing to say to a Southerner who was already convinced that this kid without an Alabama accent was too big for his britches.

“Yeah, I know, I just meant that…I’ve been using it, and winning. And now all of a sudden you’re using it, and…”

“Don’t see your name on it, boy.” Bubba’s friends had gone quiet as they watched Dean try to talk his way out of the situation. Billy Joe sniggered into his beer, watching the freckle-faced kid stick his foot even further down his throat.

“Yeah, no, my name’s not—can we just forget I said anything?” Dean asked. He looked around for help, but nobody offered any support.

“You tryin’ to back out now?” Bubba asked, leaning in close, his breath sour in Dean’s nostrils.

“No? I mean, yes? Maybe?”

He didn’t quite duck the first punch, but after that, poor old Bubba didn’t have a chance.

***

_The apartment  
9:00 p.m._

“I see,” John said grimly. “I want you to take a shower and get ready for bed, Samuel, and we’ll discuss this further when I get back. Right now, I’m going to—”

But his words were cut short by Dean’s arrival. He trudged in, backpack over his right shoulder, the other hand clapped to his face. It dropped to his side when he saw his father and brother sitting on the sofa, and revealed a bloody nose.

“Dean.” John’s voice was matter-of-fact, calm in a way that could only mean he was making a pretty big effort not to tear Dean a new one on the spot. “I came home a few minutes ago and found Sam duct-taped to the recliner.”

Dean racked his brains quickly. “Uh, yeah, Dad, I know Sam probably doesn’t feel comfortable talking about it to you, but he’s into some, uhh, alternative sexual practices, if you—”

“Dean.” John’s steely voice cut him short, while Sam stuck out his tongue. Maybe it was more appropriate for a four-year-old than a fourteen-year-old, but it made him feel better.

“Sam’s already explained some of this to me. Cut out the bullshit, or you’ll just make it harder for yourself.”

Dean swallowed. “Honestly, Dad, if you want to make it easy for me, it’s harder for me to tell it straight, so I’m thinking the bullshit’s a pretty good option, and—” He clamped his mouth shut, horrified. That was _not_ what was supposed to come out.

“And you can expect one hell of a spanking regardless, but the longer it takes to get the complete story, the more tempted I’ll be to use my belt for the whole thing. Are we clear?”

Unbelievable. Fucking unbelievable and completely terrifying. He hadn’t gotten spanked since he was, what? Sixteen? Fifteen? But John Winchester didn’t make idle threats. If he said Dean was in for one hell of a spanking, it didn’t mean some half-assed kid’s punishment that he could laugh off within an hour. No, a spanking from Dad was more like a potentially lethal ordeal. And the thought of his belt? Oh, holy shit. He’d done it this time. Time to start in with the ‘yes, sir’s. “Yes, sir,” Dean said meekly.

“Report.”

“I didn’t want Sammy putting himself in danger—again—so I made sure he couldn’t follow me to the alley when I went to look for the spirit. Sir. It was for his own protection. I didn’t see the spirit, though.”

“And how did you get the bloody nose?”

Dean winced. “Well, sir, one of the other….patrons…of the bowling alley attacked me. I didn’t start it. But he got one good punch in before I could stop him. And then I was asked to leave. Sir.” He bounced nervously on the balls of his feet, licked his lips. He was so screwed.

“So you tied up your brother, tried to go on a solo hunt, and got involved in a fight?”

“Well, when you put it like that…” he tried to joke, but John still wasn’t smiling.

“When I put it like that, Dean, it’s three strikes, and they’re all serious enough individually to earn you a trip over my knee. Together, it looks like we’ll be having a long night.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to go check out Sam’s ghost? You know, keep people from dying, kill the evil sonuvabitch, save the day?” Dean tried hopefully.

“Sounds like it’s going after preteen girls. You see any in that bowling alley tonight?”

“No, sir.”

“That’s what I thought. It should wait until tomorrow.” John fixed Dean with a glare. “Shower. Now. Clean up, wash your face, put on your pajamas. We’ll take care of this when you’re done.”

“Yes, sir.” As Dean headed for the bathroom, he realized that he was starting to hyperventilate. Shit, shit, shit.

John turned to Sam, who was smiling after his brother with a satisfied look. “And that leaves us free to continue our discussion,” he said. Sam’s face fell. “Tell me again when you realized the bowling alley was haunted.”

“I saw the spirit when Kyle’s mom dropped us off at the alley,” Sam whispered. He shifted in his seat. Unlike Dean, he was still pretty familiar with the feel of John’s hand on his ass, and he had a feeling this discussion wasn’t going to be much fun.

“And you knew it was a spirit, but you decided to ignore it and go into the alley with your friends, putting yourself in an extremely dangerous position.”

“I was going to tell you,” Sam promised, but John shook his head.

“Get your jeans down and get over my knee, Samuel. I don’t want to hear it.”

Sam stood up, fumbled with the button on his jeans. He could hear the water running in the bathroom. At least Dean wouldn’t hear him cry. He shuffled over to John’s side and placed himself over his father’s lap, waiting with a pit in his stomach for his father’s hand to tug his underwear out of the way.

“Putting yourself in danger is something I have no tolerance for, Samuel,” John scolded as he bared his son’s bottom. “Our lives are dangerous enough without inviting trouble. That kind of reckless behavior can and will get you killed if you don’t watch out. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, sir.” Sam hated the way his voice sounded at that moment, small and uneven and scared. He wished to God that John would just stop the lecture and start spanking. The sooner it started, the sooner it would be over, and he would be the one on the shower, washing away the traces of tears and residue from the duct tape around his ankles.

“If I ever catch you doing something that careless and stupid again, son, I’ll take my belt to you. This time, I’m just going to use my hand.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I want you to think about why you’re getting this spanking, Sam.” With that John started spanking, hard, rapid swats that took Sam’s breath away and made tears prick the corners of his eyes from the start. He was strict and determined, and the flat of his palm landed with a force that Sam knew he wouldn’t be able to take for long.

He bit his lip as John spanked him, and dropped his head to rest between his arms. He tried to block out the pain, separate his mind from his backside, but it was impossible. The brisk spanks beat a loud and clear message into his backside.

“Why are you getting this spanking?” John asked.

“Because I put myself in danger,” Sam said, his voice quivering with tears. “Dad, I’m sorry…”

“Good. Then maybe you won’t do something this stupid for a while. Why are you sorry?” John kept spanking, and the firm swats were beginning to build up. Sam’s skin was hot and stinging.

“Because I—I was stupid and I could have died,” Sam confessed. The tears started to leak from his eyes as the spanking continued, and John turned his attention to already well-spanked areas. He squeezed his eyes shut tight but the tears kept coming, escaping from behind his lids and soaking the couch. He clenched his teeth to keep from crying out, but John kept talking, keeping his mind on the spanking and forcing him to answer.

“And what should you have done when you saw the spirit?”

“I should—I should have g-gone home….a-and told Dean,” Sam choked out, but opening his mouth opened the floodgates. Hot tears coursed down his cheeks and he buried his face in the cushions, mouth open in a desolate sob.

“That’s right. And will you do that next time?”

 _“Yes,_ ” Sam insisted, his legs kicking a little as John’s hand traveled to the tops of his thighs and smacked the tender region. “I’m s-sorry, Daddy, really sorry…”

“I certainly hope so.” John finished the spanking with one more rapid covering of Sam’s reddened bottom and a few parting smacks to his thighs. Sam sobbed his repentance from over John’s knees, too embarrassed and hurt to move.

“I never want to spank you for being so reckless again,” John said sternly, but his own sore right hand was rubbing circles on Sam’s back, trying to calm him down. The shower had been turned off but Dean remained in the bathroom, apparently in no hurry to face his father.

“I’m sorry.” Sam sniffled an apology that could only come from a boy with a red bottom. “I’m not going to be, I promise…”

“Good.” John patted Sam’s back, and when he made no sign of moving, swatted his painful backside lightly. “Now get your brother out here.”

“Yes, sir.” Sam pulled his pants and underwear back to his waist and wiped his face on his sleeve, turning watery eyes to John in hopes of forgiveness. John answered with a reassuring smile.

“I don’t ever want to lose you,” he said gently, reaching out to brush the remaining tears from Sam’s eyes.

“No, sir.” Sam smiled back shyly before going to knock on the bathroom door. “Dean! Dad wants your butt out here _five minutes ago!”_

Dean gave a muffled curse and appeared. As Sam sidled past him and into the bathroom, he couldn’t help but feel a little glad that Dean was getting spanked. Because while he didn’t _really_ want to see his brother pulverized by a tractor or crushed by an escalator, he wasn’t ready to let the duct tape incident just go either. And Dean in tears with a red bottom seemed like a good compromise.

Dean approached his father cautiously, stopping just out of reach.

“Uh, Dad?” he asked. “Don’t you think I’m a little old to be…you know? I mean, I kind of thought we were past all this, and…”

“I had hoped so too, but clearly we’re not,” John replied. ”In the past twenty-four hours, Dean, you’ve acted less mature than your average third-grader, who knows not to _tie up his siblings,_ or _get into fights_ , or _put himself in life-threatening situations._ You’ve had a hell of a day, Dean.”

“Yeah, I kinda go for the big ones,” Dean agreed ruefully.

“And you’ve earned yourself a big spanking too,” John said heavily. He unbuckled his belt and pulled it through the loops, folding it and setting it on the coffee table. Dean flinched.

“Aw, c’mon, Dad, you aren’t really gonna use that on me, are you?” he asked, and was horrified to hear the plea in his voice.

“Right in one, Dean. Now get your pants down and get over my knee before I decide to add some extra spanks for arguing.”

Dean could move fast when properly motivated, and he was lying across John’s lap almost before he finished saying “yes, sir.”

John started Dean’s spanking with his hand, but already the blows were coming harder and faster than Sam had received, and Dean squirmed a little at the sharp contact and skin-to-skin smart. John lectured as he spanked, knowing that Dean already knew everything he’d done wrong, but wanting it to penetrate that thick skull of his.

“The first thing I want to address is the fighting,” John said. “I don’t know what it was about, and frankly I don’t care. You provoked an attack and since I’m sure you finished it, you probably knew what you were doing. Fighting is unacceptable, Dean. I need you in good condition for hunting, and any fight with an untrained human is going to be unfair. It’ll also draw a hell of a lot of unwanted attention. Now, for example, I’m not sure you can come back to check out the case with me.”

Dean’s frame slumped at those words, although the tension in his neck and shoulders remained. John kept spanking for another minute, watching the color of Dean’s pale skin change from a faint pink to a rosier shade. As Dean shifted unconsciously, he began the next phase of the spanking.

“You know better than to tie your brother up under any circumstances, Dean. I understand that you wanted to protect him, but if you’d really been interested in his safety it wouldn’t have come to that. The situation should never have come up. But we’ll discuss that later.”

He spanked even harder for this point, his palm descending repeatedly across Dean’s bottom and upper thighs. The skin was glowing and his hand was aching by the time Dean’s breathing changed. It was subtle but clear. The breaths came slower and more deliberate as Dean tried not to make a sound, tried not to let John know that the first tears had started to trickle down his face.

He slowed the solid spanks. “Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

“I’m sorry.” Dean’s voice was husky and emotional.

“Good.” John stopped the spanking long enough to pick up the belt, and Dean tensed up again, the muscles in his bottom and thighs clenching in anticipation.

John ran his left hand over Dean’s back, trying to rub out some of the tension. That was the surest way to leave bruises, damaging the muscles. Dean relaxed the muscles under his touch, but his breathing was even more erratic.

“And that brings us to your biggest mistake: you tried to go on a solo hunt. Now, Dean, you’re a damn good hunter, and someday you’ll probably be better than your old man. But you’re not ready for this. You’re young, inexperienced. You’ve got a handful of kills under your belt and you assumed you could handle it. I’m guessing you’ve already figured out that it’s harder than it looks. Am I right?”

“Yes, sir,” Dean said, and there was a world of defeat in the two whispered words.

“There’s a reason you aren’t going on solo hunts yet, Dean. When you’re ready, you’ll be a damn fine hunter. But you still need training and experience. You understand me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You knew I didn’t think you were ready. You knew there was probably a hunt. And you decided to check it out yourself rather than call me and wait for backup. That was dangerous, disobedient, and completely inappropriate. You’re my son, Dean. You know how things work in this family. You’re eighteen years old, and you’re getting eighteen with the belt to remind you that you’re still under my rules, and you’re not ready to be out on your own.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good boy. You don’t have to count.”

With that, John let the belt descend on Dean’s sensitive backside, leaving a vivid red stripe across both cheeks. Dean inhaled through his teeth, leaning forward and digging his fingers into the couch.

The next stroke came directly below the first, and the third one landed at the crease of Dean’s buttocks and thighs. He let out a strangled yelp and began shaking.

John’s hand was shaking too as he continued to bring the belt down, punishing Dean’s sore bottom with the biting leather. By the time he reached ten, Dean was sobbing freely, and apologizing in breathless gasps for air. His entire backside was painted fire engine red.

“Good boy,” he murmured, and he cracked the belt down. He wasn’t using much force anymore, not now that Dean was a limp, crushed form draped over his legs. He didn’t need to.

“S-s-so s-sorrrrry,” Dean promised him again and again. He finished up quickly, with the last three strokes landing on Dean’s thighs and eliciting one final howl and collapse. He returned the belt to the coffee table and began rubbing Dean’s shoulders.

“’M sorry, ’m sorry,” Dean swore.

“I know, son. I know.”

Finally Dean stopped sobbing, stopped apologizing, He stood up slowly and pulled up his cotton pajama pants, wincing as the loose fabric met his sore backside.

“I am sorry, Dad,” he said, looking his father in the eyes to prove he meant it.

John rose and gave him a half-hug. “I know you are,” he said simply. “Now you get into bed.”

“Yes, sir.” Dean was surprised to see that Sam had already crawled into his own bed, slipping past his father and brother unnoticed at some point. He lay down on his stomach on top of his covers, not wanting to feel even the weight of his sheets against the inflamed skin.

“Hey, Sam?” he asked.

“Yeah?” Sam’s voice was suspicious.

“I’m sorry I was such a dick. I didn’t mean it. I just didn’t want you to get hurt. You know that, right?”

“Yeah.” Sam was quiet for a minute before his voice cut through the darkness again. “It’s okay. I’m sorry you got spanked so hard.”

“Yeah. Me too.”

“Night, Dean.”

“Goodnight, Sammy.”

They fell asleep quickly, exhausted from the day and the spankings. Neither of them was awake when John slipped in to check on them, or when he slipped out of the apartment to see what he could learn about the spirit at the bowling alley. John didn’t know anything about her yet, but he was going to make sure she was gone before anyone else got killed, taped to a chair or spanked.


End file.
